I'll be holding your shoes
by metawohoo
Summary: We go way back , Butch says when you ask him about Fish.


«We go way back», Butch says when you ask him about Fish.

He goes way back with quite a few people, and it means nothing, as he's not known to let fond memories impact his work. That's not to say he does not feel guilt when one of his dearest childhood friends lies dead at his feet, but it's a dog eat dog world. He understands that your loyalty is not something you can afford to divide. He understands that survival does not allow for mercy, nor affection. They all understand.

The past means very little to him, as it means very little to them. You're expected to avenge your friends - your brothers - and to protect them with your life, as long as it does not anger your boss, or someone higher up. However, if the family's politics take an unexpected turn, if your friend - your brother - does not toe the line, love is no longer relevant. Your friend's mother might have called you her second son. His father might have taught you to ride a bike. You might have spent days roaming the streets of Gotham, pranking shopkeepers and snagging candy from shelves. You might have been his best man. It's a damn shame, sure, but sometimes life does not go the way you want it to, and you end up burying that friend a shallow grave. They all know it.

In that context, where long enduring friendships come second best to duty, people hear «we go way back» and assume Butch's allegiances can be easily swayed. They believe he stands by her side out of habit, but that he can and will abandon ship at the slightest hint of her going down. They do not understand that his loyalty to Fish has nothing to do with going way back.

It does not matter whether their past stretches over fifteen years of fifteen minutes. It has nothing to do with time. It has everything to do with _her_.

###

It had been love at first sight.

Maybe not. In truth, it had been cautious curiosity at first sight, but love had followed near instantly.

Butch does not remember who he had been working for back then. Some guy who worked for some guy who worked for Jimmy, he thinks. Jimmy made his way up early in life. Butch… Butch is not the ambitious kind. Not the ambitious kind it takes to make it to capo, anyway. He's fine at the head of a small crew, taking orders. He handles the logistics. He gets to get creative. He has his fun. Calling the shots makes him uneasy. It's not that he's a coward, but he is. He's not afraid of death, he's not afraid of killing, he's not afraid of taking decisions, so he can't pinpoint what it is that makes him weak. He has self-confidence, but not in Fish's spades. He can be witty but he isn't sharp. He doesn't know.

Anyway, he had been working for some guy, which he did a lot back then. He was not on his way to becoming Falcone's lieutenant and he had no plan to. He had a small crew, and kind of operated in that vaguely defined realm of opportunities that only pissed Maroni's men off. Butch and his team were free agents of sorts, taking the odd job, making money, pissing it away. They had raided a store, or was it a restaurant, or was it a casino? It doesn't matter much. What matters is that they had cash, piles of it, and their small team had ended up in the red lights district, to spend it all on whores, booze, and poker.

It brings you back, remembering it. The club, the smell of sweat and cheap perfume, the piss-poor watered down beer, the music. Shit, those pop hits have not stood the test of time, so Butch can hum the tune but he's probably the only soul on earth to even recall the songs ever existed. They say music was better in the past, but that's a fallacy. What happens is that people forget about the crap they heard back in their time, and it all quietly falls out of the world, unsold, unaired. Butch can't tell you the name of the song. He can tell you the names of his men, though, and even say with ninety-nine percent certitude that Corey's stripper girlfriend had been called Jane. He can tell you that Jane had been the first to check what the _hell_ was going on outside. She had all but jumped away from Corey's lap, her breasts bouncing up and down in her Union Jack bikini. She had raced to the window and pressed her nose against the glass, with her hands on both sides of her face to stop the reflections.

There was a fight. No guns were involved, so people had flooded out of the club to enjoy the show, and Butch had met Fish.

In retrospect, it had been the perfect introduction. Nothing was more representative of Fish's character than her bashing a pimp's face in with a baseball bat on the sidewalk of a public street.

Sometimes, he can't believe it has been fifteen years already. But he can still see her clear as day, with her mass of curly hair, that striped yellow and black top that fell from her shoulders, the leather miniskirt, the fishnets and _leg warmers_ , and yeah, it was fifteen years ago. Can't argue with the clothes. If she was not a whore, she sure looked the part, with the make up and five pounds worth of necklaces, and earrings larger than her ears. But he does not know: he has never asked, and he never will.

The first words he ever heard from her, he remembers well.

«How is that for you, you piece of shit?» she had spat at the pimp, smashing his face again.

There was no need to keep hitting, at that point, because the guy was not dead but would clearly not make it. There was not much left of his face, nor of his knees, and they heard a sick crunching noise when the bat connected with his mouth. What was hilarious was that no one had even attempted to help him. There she was, five feet tall, barefoot, armed only with a big wooden stick, and no one raised a finger. They were surrounded by three dozens prostitutes and passerby, and there was not _one_ person in the crow to stop that man from being beaten to a pulp.

Butch had stood to the side with the rest and, yeah, love at next-to-first sight. She had been beautiful (still was), foaming at the mouth, panting, sweaty, _beautiful_.

Fifteen years down the line and the essence of her is still here. The clothes have changed, and so has the haircut, but the fury and the strength did not fade, and he still feels that absolute fascination, can still barely refrain from letting his hands roam all over her.

She had wiped her mouth and tapped the side of her knee with her bat, then she had spat on her victim, picked up her pair of high heels from the ground, and turned away.

«You okay?» she had told a child prostitute, a girl of maybe thirteen once you removed the makeup.

The kid - Gail - had nodded and opened her mouth to answer, only to be cut short by some good old fashioned threats and curses.

There were rules in town, and you could not allow the merchandise to rebel, so the dying pimp's colleagues had arrived to remind everyone of the natural order of things, were the whores were obedient and terrified and did not smash their bosses' faces with sport equipment. Four of them, armed men, none too pleased and all going for Fish. She had confidence in spades even back then. She had turned to them, eyebrows raised, and casually tapped her bat against her palm.

«We going to have a problem?» she had asked, unimpressed by the guns pointed at her face.

«Not much longer, baby», the closest pimp had mocked.

There were things a properly working survival instinct could tell you, like «don't touch fire» and «heights are bad», and «this is not the kind of woman you call baby».

Of course, one bat could not do much against four guns, so Fish had not hit him. She had clicked her tongue, dropped her shoes, and stared the idiot down. At that point, Butch had walked up to her, to stand by her side, and had never left. Not that she had wanted him there. The look she had given him had been clear enough. «Do I need like I need your help?». Disdain. She needed no protection. She was ready to stand her ground, whatever the cost, and was not about to let some hero save the day. He understood that perfectly, so he had not given her protection. He had given her his gun.

Of course, the gun came attached to his crew, but giving her the control of a team was not nearly the same as shielding her from enemies she did not fear.

«Why, thank _you_ », she had said, shooting the closest thug in the gut.

###

Every two weeks or so, Corey tells Butch «We should quit. Why haven't we quit?». He's been doing that for fifteen years. He has not quit. Even when you're not in love with Fish Mooney, she's a hard woman to leave. You're never bored.

###

Butch is still not too clear on the exact sequence of events after that first gunshot. More gunshots, that's a given. A screaming crowd. A teenage girl whacking at a pimp's knees with a baseball bat. The same teenage girl being carried away by a running Corey. Police sirens. A three cars race at breakneck speed across town. It's all a mix and match of images. It had been entertaining. He would not have described it as fun, but Charlie - crazy bastard that he was - had declared that they had to do _that_ more often. Corey had grumbled about being cockblocked and Jane, who was freezing her ass off in that bikini, had whined about having to find a new job. But the reaction had been mostly positive.

They had set out to have a great evening. Three dead (none on their side), a gunfight, and a last minute escape were a vast improvement over cards and some drunken brawl in a strip club. Still, they had not expected to return to the garage they were using as headquarters that early, nearly sober, and with a teenager in tow. Nor with an overly confident black chick with a weird haircut and golden leg warmers.

«I'd hit that», Charlie had told Butch, pointing at her ass as she walked inside.

She was still barefoot. She had only recovered the one shoe, a high heeled black sandal that was dangling from her hand.

«I would not recommend it», Gilzean had replied.

He had a feeling.

He had several, really.

Charlie had tried a pick-up line, and Fish had snorted at him. She had not been _that_ mean - everyone could see that Charlie was a few fries short of a Happy Meal, and that he meant no disrespect - but had made it clear enough that advances would be unwelcome. Then she had joined Butch.

«So, you're their boss?»

«Yep», he had said, watching their teenage rescue make herself a cushion out of plastic tarp and canvas bags.

The sad thing about Gail is that they had saved her for a whole eight months. Sent her back to her parents, who had turned out to be decent people. But you could take her from her abductor. You could not take the illness out of her. Antiretrovirals weren't big back then. Fish still visits her grave. That kid was the first stray out of many.

«Here's your gun», Fish had said, giving the weapon back. «Thank you.»

He had smiled and put the gun back into his holster. He'd been trying not to stare, because up close, she was lovely. Yeah, the haircut was weird, with cornrows that left her scalp exposed on one side and a mess of curls on the other. She was wearing half her weight in cheap jewelry. Her clothes would have been called trashy by a crack whore. None of that mattered because she held herself like a queen.

«What's your name, miss?»

«I'm Maria. Maria Mooney. What's yours?»

«Butch.»

She had raised an eyebrow and looked him up and down.

«That sounds about right.»

It _sounded_ like flattery, but he knew a test when he saw one.

«Ouch. Sarcasm, already?»

Her smile had gone from fake to fond.

###

The problem with being in love with someone like Fish is that you _know_ she's going to get herself killed. It's not a matter of if, it's a matter of when, and you may be keeping a watchful eye, you know it won't be enough. At the same time, you can't contradict her when she races down the path to disaster. You can only make it work.

She's daring. She's a legend. She can do the impossible. She has, she will.

It's not that she's unable of being cautious, it's that she considers that caution only serves her up to a point (and that point travels wildly depending on her state of mind). But, she says, no one has ever accomplished anything by dreaming. You don't ask yourself if you _can_ do something, only _how_ you can. So maybe you fail. At least you have tried. She feels nothing but scorn for those who take one look at the hurdles ahead and make excuses to stay right where they are. She has gone so far by now, Butch sometimes has to stop and let it sink in.

Logic says she has limits, and he's aware of that, but she amazingly apt at making him forget.

That being she's naive. It's not her fault (not entirely). She says confidence goes a long way, but the truth is, it does not do so on its own. Butch has been here for years, smoothing the edges, making miracles happen. He loves the sparkle in her eyes when she's absolutely confident in her chances of success. He loves the way she half closes her eyelids when she thinks and schemes, and dreams. So, sometimes, he has to sweeten the truth a little - like with Jimmy, when he told her there was a chance his friend could be swayed - but she does not need to know everything. What would be the point of telling her Jimmy thought she was a joke? Sure, he was a friend - a brother - and they went a long way, but he was a dead man walking. Sure, joining him was tempting. Not because of the money, and the club, and all the businesses attached, but because it was Jimmy and fuck if he wasn't the best friend Butch had ever had. They had grown apart, sure, but it was nothing that could not be repaired. But Jimmy had that «bros over hos» mentality, it had not occurred to him that he was asking too much.

Butch had thought about it long and hard, trying to devise a solution where both parties lived, but he was no dreamer. He had told Fish to give his friend a little time, and given that time to _himself_ , to make up his mind, to grieve. He had prepared his most heartfelt apologies. Truth is, Butch is not a good friend, has never been, and many little betrayals weigh on his conscience. At the end of the way, however, he's selfish, and he does it all over again.

He buried Jimmy. Not in a shallow grave, either. He's a shitty friend, but not to that degree. No. Maybe, in a few years, he'll arrange for someone to find the spot, so the body can be moved to his family's plot in Old Gotham's cemetery.

Anyway, Butch lies to Fish. White lies. The ones that keep her herself. Power makes her happy, even the illusion of it, so it's not a hard choice. It's not like he thinks she would _fail_ without him (if she does, he'll be at her side, anyway). She'd do just fine, she's brilliant like that. It's just that she's allowed to forget, every now and then, that the world is at her throat. No need to make her life harder than it already is. If she's delusional, it's part of her magic. If reality hits her in the face, no matter how hard the truth, she's perfectly able to punch back.

Still.

It's a risky life they have. A risky life for him, but he doesn't mind. A risky life for her, and it eats him alive. He would die for her, he would kill for her - hell, he nearly killed that torturer with his bare hands and would have, if he had been given a few more minutes - but that's not enough. They're living on borrowed time. They've been lucky, he says so himself, and Lady Luck is just as fickle a mistress as Fish herself. Ask Lazlo.

Butch will be the first to go. He wouldn't have it any other way.

###

For the first few months, she came and went. She walked around their garage like she owned the place, too, but the boys were always happy to see her. Even Corey, who loves to complain.

She kind of infiltrated herself into their lives. She flirted a little. They all got wise to that, in time. If you wanted Maria to like you, you had better not _want_ her. If you did, you had better not show it, or she would use you and despise you.

Butch doesn't know why people don't get it at once: he saw it the instant he first talked to her. She has a problem with being flirted with, she has a problem with being desired, she has a problem with being _objectified_. She has never explained it, Butch has his theories, but they both pretend it has to do with her dead mother. Which version of her «dead mother» sob story is up for debate. All of that to say Fish does not like being desired, not if it's not a result of her direct efforts. In her eyes, it makes you less. She has that knee-jerk reaction of utter disgust, until she flips the tables on you and wraps you around her finger.

Butch is not very happy in that little platonic world they made for themselves, but he's very happy.

So, she came and went. The boys got wise. They learned to flirt without meaning it, and to give her the deference she strove for. Soon enough, she was hiring them (she did not have money, but she had very lucrative ideas). She spent the evenings with them, in bars, playing cards, flirting with waitresses, drinking them under the table (the trick is in replacing champagne by Sprite in your cocktails, by the way). She was feisty, she was insane, and she made money appear. They loved her.

Sure, it did not take long before Butch's crew remarked on how he'd always find himself sitting by her side, and on how there was never any touching going on.

«Dude, you're _smitten_ », Joey had once pointed out over beers, on a late evening, after Maria had left.

«Yeah, like, totally besotted», Rick had confirmed.

«More like subservient», Corey had corrected, grumpy as ever.

Butch had glared at them with mild annoyance.

«Did you fuckers rob a library?»

«Just saying it as it is», Rick had retorted, laughing. «You should try your luck. She likes you the best.»

«I'll keep that in mind», Butch had promised, but he was not crazy.

 _Subservient_ , though.

That stung.

But… Yeah.

In the end, she decided she wanted to own a «fine drinking establishment». She meant a seedy bar downtown, in the Theater district. She'd found a place that would not be _too_ expensive, and the owner really wanted to get the fuck out of Gotham. He was tired of the taxes, she said, and of being robbed every other day.

«He'll give me a good price if I can come up with the money by the end of the week», she had explained, caressing Butch's neck as she did. She could touch him all she wanted, he was the one who had to keep his hands to himself. «You in?»

«I don't know, Maria. What's the plan?»

«I have a list.»

She had a list. They had robbed and extorted and pawned crap for five days straight, and - come Saturday - Fish was redecorating, and Butch and his crew were sitting at the table that would be theirs for a few years. They got free drinks - even the good stuff - and the working girls who found refuge inside the bar on the really cold evenings always favored them. The bar, just like Maroni's cosy little restaurant, was a front.

###

No one quite questions his relationship with Fish now. People know they are not lovers - he doesn't fit the profile of her usual boy-toys or girlfriends - so he's mostly seen as her fat sidekick, there for the money and the job security. He's so crazy about her most _romance novels_ are less sentimental, but it's never mentioned. He wonder if he hides it so well now that no one notices, or if people are just blind. Jimmy, fucking _Jimmy_ , who had seen him flirt with his first crush and drink himself to oblivion after his first break up, had watched them interact for more than a decade and still completely missed it.

The only one who comments on it is Bullock, and he doesn't even _comment_ on it. It's in the way he looks at Butch. The amusement in his eyes. The superiority. «I fucked her and you didn't». «You fucked her and I didn't». They don't like each other much. Of course, they don't discuss the topic, it just lies between them, and Bullock's attitude is heavily dependent on who feels the most confident, how drunk Harvey is, and Fish's mood. Regardless on who folds and who smirks, there's a lot of animosity there. Butch would like to say it's because the cop is a worthless piece of shit, and there's that, but it's honestly all because Fish was once in love with him. One of the best moments in Butch's life had been hanging that moron from a butcher hook, and on Fish's order, at that. Good times. Extremely satisfying. Of course, if Falcone had not interrupted, they would have killed Gordon first, just to give Fish a little time to come to her senses and remember she was fond of the drunken douchebag. But not _too much_ time.

###

Bullock had happened because of a suicide. Some guy had shot himself in the back of the head and thrown himself into Gotham River, and the cop had been set on the case. Hearsay and a generous distribution of twenty dollar bills had brought him to Fish's door, and he had never left. Butch had been drinking with her, joking, discussing their latest heist, and the bastard had walked in and ruined his day (and several of his years on top of that).

Remembering ten-years ago Bullock is harder than it seems. The details fade. He was thinner, better dressed, sober, and he stank a little less. His face, though? Nah. Butch can only see him as he's now, maybe shaved and with a better haircut. What he has _not_ forgotten is the way he looked at Fish, from the moment he saw her. Butch is well acquainted with love at first sight. It's easy to spot.

So, Harvey's younger self has slipped from his mind. His memories of Maria Mercedes Mooney never falter, however, so he can still see her standing from her chair, honing in on her new prey. The trashy girl from the gutter had been nearly scraped away by that point. Her hair was straight and shiny. Her dresses were worth a small fortune. Her jewelry was made of actual gold. She had not lost her taste for the gaudy, but it wasn't gaudy stolen from a sex shop anymore, and she had toned it down. Back then, she was barely acquainted with Don Falcone, and she had built herself a new facade, more in line with the old man's tastes. She was gorgeous all the same.

Then again, Butch doesn't think her beauty is in her clothes.

«Why, of course I'll do my best to help you, detective», she had told Bullock, smiling eagerly.

She had tasted blood in the water. Butch had nearly felt sorry for the poor sod. He looked all driven and heroic and mentally impaired, the kind of moron she made short work of.

«What a _swine_ », she had commented after the cop had left. «Did you see that, Butch?» - She had clicked her tongue. - «I swear I can't stand men who only think with their crotch.»

Gilzean had not even been concerned. The important topic was the corpse, who was possibly that of a snitch from Safina's crew. It wasn't every day that a capo executed his right-hand man. It was even less common for said right-hand man to resurface.

«That body they found, it's Ranieri, right? Is that detective on to something?»

«I don't know. I'd have to talk to Safina. Might go straight to Carmine, though. Ranieri was not supposed to reappear. That kind of carelessness, from someone he trusts so much?»

Butch had sipped his drink. She loathed Falcone, but she was not so fond of Safina either. He was a proud bastard, and he has his objections to the quick rise of a woman in the family. He had mocked her. No one mocked her and lived to tell the tale.

«I wouldn't poison the well just yet», he had advised. «It'll blow up into Safina's face anyway, and Falcone will have to clean up the mess all the same.»

«You know what? You're _absolutely_ right. But I don't need to poison the well. The old man is a fool. I'm just going to be very dutiful and ask for instructions.»

It made sense. Falcone barely knew her, and it was as the devoted daughter of one of his lieutenants. He had no idea of her history. Who did?

The don had fallen for her trick. He had been grateful. As for his instructions, they had been «Bullock is not on our payroll yet. Keep an eye on him. Find out what he knows.»

###

About Falcone. Butch knows every single of Fish's rants by heart, mostly because, over the course of fifteen years, some repetition is bound to occur. Now, Butch is not quite as vocal in his opinions, but he mostly agrees. Carmine Falcone has grown old, and with that come some advantages. While he can get scary at times, he plays the «elegant gentleman» card ad nauseam. People tend to forget how much of a ruthless sociopath he is. Until he has one of their loved ones abducted or murdered, that is. It's kind of hilarious how he goes all «don't hurt her, she's a civilian» when Liza vanishes on him, because it's not exactly a page of his own rulebook. He's a killer, he's a crook, he's a monster. He runs the people who run the sex trade, so you can add «slaver» and «rapist by proxy» to that list. He's a cunt. His men are cunts. His friends are cunts.

No, Butch does not like Falcone very much.

There's also the way he keeps pretending not to know Butch's name. «Forgive me, young man. I forget what your name is. Or perhaps I never knew it».

It gets old. Gilzean does not care much about having his insignificance rubbed in his face. They met more than twelve years ago. They've been introduced, several times, and even if Fish had not specifically told his name to the old bastard, she has used it a million times in his presence. But it's not like Butch can come out and say «She's your lieutenant, fucker. You know full well how I'm called».

Of course, now that they are traitors, he probably can.

Shit, he remembers their first meeting perfectly. Fish had needed a lift to her father's (because she apparently had a father). That had led to quite a few questions that had let to vague explanations of the «we've been estranged» variety. He had cancer, she had told Butch. He wanted her to take care of him. She didn't go into details like his name and job or anything. Butch had ended up parking in front of his house and had nearly choked.

«You didn't mention your father was _Wright_ », he had commented.

Now, when Butch says Falcone's friends are cunts, it's with good reason. Loeb is pretty much a choir boy compared to the brand of assholes Carmine prefers to work with. Wright was no exception.

«Heh. It's been years», Fish had replied. «I had forgotten about him.»

Ten minutes later, she was peeling Wright's morphine patches off, with her meanest smirk, so Butch was fairly certain her memory was flawless.

It was the day she had met Falcone. Getting access to the crime lord was probably the reason she had not dealt with her father with a cushion to the face. She needed an in, and introducing herself as the child of a trusted capo was an excellent one. Falcone had come to visit his friend. Fish had given him her best loving daughter act. «My father told me so much about you. You have been such a good friend to him in his time of need».

Carmine had swallowed it hook, line, and sinker. It had taken him a few more months to see through the facade, and by that point, Wright had died a gruesome, horrendous death, deprived of pain killers but provided with every other type of care that could prolong his agony.

Fish tells a lot of stories about her ma', and how one of Falcone's men killed her, and how she swore revenge on Carmine. As far as Butch is concerned, he knows the man in question has not escaped punishment. Not that it quieted her fury. He believes it, when she says that she'll kill Falcone. That hatred runs so deep, she can barely keep it in.

Butch has seen her destroy rooms after visits from the don. That day she had met Bullock, and asked for instructions? Three thousand dollars in repairs. And she had needed stitches.

«Find out what he knows. See if you can corrupt him. Do whatever is necessary. Lie to him, seduce him if need be.»

Even bleeding, even exhausted, she had still been shaking with rage. Butch had disinfected her torn nails, and pulled the splinters out of her palms, and cleaned the little cuts all over her hands. Then he had fought to keep a gentle facade as she made the cruelest attempt at seduction he had ever received from anyone. He had ignored her hands on his chest and thigh. He had given her a friendly smile, and walked out. And he had kicked a dent into his car.

###

When he considers how he let himself slide into the trusted best friend's role - not even that: into the trusted right-hand man role, since Fish does not _have_ friends - he sometimes wonders if he should have tried anyway, if he should have attempted to flirt with her, to seduce her, or even to hint at something a little less platonic than what they have.

He knows without the shadow of a doubt that it was not an option back then. She needed, desperately needed someone to stand by her side, without the added mess of a relationship. To her, love and sex were weapons. If they were not, then she considered both as weaknesses, to be stomped down and scraped away. Survival does not allow for affection, and neither does ambition.

Still, watching her fall in love with Harvey Bullock had been rough.

###

It had been against her better judgment and nearly against her will - Butch had seen her frown and click her tongue and berate herself - but Fish's disgust for Bullock had slowly turned to endearment.

He still pretends he doesn't get it. «He's crude, and he's an idiot, and he's a sleaze», he says of the cop. «There's no reason for her to even notice him». He would be hard-pressed to name even one of the bastard's qualities. But, truth to be told, he knows. Harvey made her _laugh_. He made her laugh and got under her skin and flattered her and showed appreciation for everything in her that was not a rampaging criminal: the looks, the smile, the body, but also the smarts and the banter they shared. Bullock was also willing to take the abuse.

It had been excruciating to watch.

Oh, Butch had seen Fish seduce people before. She fucked _plenty_ of people. Girls, boys, she was only picky in terms of looks and kinks. He had shrugged it off. He did not care. But seeing her _not_ sleep with Harvey Bullock for the two years of their teasing, tortuous courtship had been hell. That guy she was _not_ sleeping with was closer to her than anyone in her life, be it her boyfriends, her girlfriends, or Butch himself. It had carved holes into him.

Seeing them sink into each other, after Bullock's partner had been crippled and Fish had finally given in… It had been _much_ worse. They fed each other darkness, they pulled each other down, and Fish…

Well, Maria had become Fish about at that point. Safina had given her the name, actually. Of course, he had meant it as an insult. «You're a very little fish in a big, big pond, girl», he had railed.

«Fish?» she chimed back. «I might actually _use_ that. Fish. Mooney. What do you think, Butch? I think it has a nice ring to it.»

«You're totally right, boss», he had dutifully replied.

«Fish. Mooney», she had repeated with a laugh. «Yes. I definitely like it.»

Safina's face had been a mix of anger and disbelief. Gilzean knew she was furious, and mortally offended, but all the capo could see was that she was laughing in his face. That «little fish in a big pond» had drowned him six months later, after several rounds of waterboarding, over fabricated treason evidence. Then she had taken his men and his territory.

Her friends were to call her «Fish».

Butch was to call her «Fish».

Everyone else could go with «Miss Mooney».

To Bullock, she was «Maria».

There comes a point where you can't describe jealousy without using terms best handled by professional writers. Career criminals make poor poets, however, so Butch just thinks of that entire time period as «fairly bad». He thinks of it less and less, actually, and considers himself blessed.

###

If Butch has to point out _one_ time he had nearly told Fish «okay, I'm out», totally thrown in the towel, and walked away to find himself a slightly saner job… It's strange to say, considering he has gone through beatings, the odd gunshot wound, more beatings, three stabbings, Harvey freaking Bullock, and three hundred harebrained plans, but he has nearly left over the _club_. Well. Not the club. Over cleaning bird shit from the floor for a whole fucking day, only to have Fish decide the tile pattern was not to her taste.

Despite those unpleasant, poultry-filled beginnings, he loves the club, really. He'll miss it.

###

When Bullock finally broke it off, after several years too many, he did not just go out with a bang. He went out like a fourth of July, with gunfire and threats and screams. Butch had not been there to see it - he had been arguing with Maroni's guys over their overcharging for booze again - but Corey had been in the room, and he had a lot to say.

It had been about some snitch's punishment. Now, Fish doled out punishment the way she had handled that pimp, the night she had met Butch. When she was in that state of rage, you needed a strong stomach to gaze upon the results of her creative instructions. Having a team meant she did not have to be the one doing the beating either. She loved to, but the chain of command was really recommended. It was slightly better for a criminal organization to see «thug 21» end up behind bars, instead of an underboss. Plausible deniability worked better if you weren't caught with a bloody baseball bat. You could just go «hey, I never gave that order, I don't know what that guy is talking about». Fish knew that. She made efforts.

Bullock had spent years drinking himself numb to pretend Fish was not _exactly_ who she was, but he could not turn a blind eye to… Whatever had been going on in that room. Corey had said «heh, the usual», and the snitch had gone through several rounds of reconstructive surgery.

Butch had returned to the club five minutes or so after Bullock's departure, or so he had been told, and had been quickly briefed by Corey. Then he had joined Fish inside. She had been sitting at the bar, perfectly composed, sipping _nothing_ from an empty glass.

«How did the purchase go?» she had asked, putting her glass down.

«I brought the price down some», he had replied. «You okay?»

He should have been overjoyed to see Bullock go. People who tore each other apart should not have tried to make it work for so long. But Fish _did_ love the guy.

«Why wouldn't I be?» she had asked.

He had taken the seat next to hers and sighed.

«I _am_ », she had insisted, rolling her eyes. «It's good. It's all good. Harvey has always been a liability.»

Then she had bitten her lower lip and looked at the floor for a moment, so Butch had reached for the hand she kept clenched on the counter, and wrapped his much larger fist around it. They had discussed business for hours, from the price of the alcohol to the necessity of finding another supplier, if that was even possible. Butch had not let go. She had not pulled her hand away.

###

Sometimes, Butch wonders. Has he looked at the hurdles ahead and made excuses to stay right where he was?

He wonders if things have changed. If Fish has.

Sometimes he feels that she's waiting for him to _say_ something, that she's over whatever made her squirm and rage at the idea of having no control over being desired. He feels like he could just pull her to him and kiss her and survive it. Not only survive it, but be allowed to make it last, to cross that invisible line that keeps them both apart and together, and to wipe it off for good.

He's slipping more and more, and he knows how fake and awkward his laugh sounds most of the time. He knows she sees how he leans over her «innocuously» and how he not so accidentally brushes against her. She's used to men fighting to keep their hands away from her. She calls them easy prey.

There's not time like the present, and they're not just living on borrowed time, they ran out of it. He has rescued her from a torturer. Falcone's men are after them. They are not likely to get out of Gotham alive (though Butch has backups plans by the dozen. Keeping her safe kind of matters to him and he has always known she would need exit roads).

Maybe he should _finally_ make a move.

But it's too late now. It's been fifteen years, and he's afraid to be reading the signs wrong, anyway. If there was ever a time, it has come and gone.

Maybe he'll think about it tomorrow.

###

There was only one way it could all end, so he's not surprised, or even that unprepared. Fish has nearly gotten them both killed on the day they met. Delaying their deaths for fifteen year is _really_ an accomplishment.

He's not surprised. He's afraid, he's terrified, but mostly for her. Zsasz - like most of Falcone's men - is a cunt. Probably the worst of the lot. The idea of him getting his hands on Fish is not something Butch cares to contemplate.

«You've got to go», he snaps, pushing her through the window. «I'll slow them down!»

Which is the point where she understands he won't even attempt to follow her. There's nothing she can do but shout, however. There's no way to climb back up, and Butch knows her. Practicality will triumph over her feelings in the next twenty seconds.

He doesn't look down, just closes the window, reattaches it's cover, rolls a table in front of it.

She'll be dead by sundown, but he tries not to think of it. She's a lucky woman, has always been. If someone can make good use of the five minutes his facing Zsasz will gain, it's her. But she's most likely going to be dead by sundown.

Butch has always known her getting herself killed was not a matter of if, but when. He has done all he could.

He'll be the first to go. He wouldn't want it any other way.

###

###


End file.
